


break all the rules for you

by caeliste (fictitiousregrets)



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Secret Samol 2017, Twilight Mirage, spoilers through episode 23 of twilight mirage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-23 00:17:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13178283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictitiousregrets/pseuds/caeliste
Summary: Satellite contemplates change, selfhood, and the mystery of her primary observer over 177 days.





	break all the rules for you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LuckyDiceKirby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyDiceKirby/gifts).



> happy secret samol, sarah!!!! i'm so glad i got to write about primary & satellite for you! hope you enjoy <3

Primary was…in a word, compliant. Grey gazed at the little blinking node on her work grid, the one that indicated her Primary Observer’s station. As far as she could tell, Primary was one of those people who did as she was told. Not boring—not in the least, but definitely followed protocol.

     She seemed well-read, that was for sure—some of her dispatches were practically poetry, to the point where Grey didn’t even realize that she’d been relating that Gumption was _dead_.

     Even the presentation was so poetic. She didn’t say it flat out, she… she presented it in the framing device of the Assemblage, the Divine Fleet’s holy texts. Was Grey familiar with the Assemblage? Yes, but not as… intimately… as Primary seemed to be. So, it seemed that there was something beyond Primary’s attachment to mission protocol.

     She was a scholar, just like Grey. She delivered everything in a philosophical, poetic phrasing that threw caution to the wind.

     Most of their days were like this; days of watching, waiting with bated breath to see if today was the day the Divine Fleet would finally fall apart. Grey sighed, turned her attention to the Fleet. Not that she didn’t trust Primary—she trusted Primary with her life—but she wanted to observe it for herself.

     It looked normal enough. For a moment, Grey thought she saw Primary out there amidst the orange glow of the mirage, and then she caught herself staring, because that _was_ her. Demani Dusk: a figure sitting lonely by the window, looking out into the distance.

     She tore her attention away from those two seconds of footage and turned it back to the planet of Quire.

 

 

It was normal to check in on your observational partner after she witnessed the death of a Divine. It was definitely normal, and more than that? It was polite.

     She expected Primary to downplay it, to say it was fine. That they had a job to do. She wasn’t disappointed, but she heard that small undertone of shock and sadness in Primary’s voice. It was something she could do now. She observed _everything_. But as much as she wanted to comfort Primary, as much as she wanted to say it was okay to grieve for them, to draw attention to it would be almost cruel.

     So her reports were more cheerful than before. She turned their observation of the Fleet and Quire into philosophical questions, ones she knew Primary would latch onto: did she think about faith? About time?

     Grey thought about time a lot, it turned out. It was just that this place thought so differently about time. On Cycle, time wasn’t _real_ like it was here. Crystal Palace and the Rapid Evening made sure that everyone there was protected, and that meant that every single memory Grey had didn’t so much function linearly back then. It was more of an assemblage, a huge wall of snapshots of memories.

     Here, though, progression was linear, if only because it had to be. Report 1, Report 2, Report 3, and so on, to document the mission, to know what was happening at all times. They skipped communiques sometimes, but they always numbered the day they were on. Grey gave serious thought to how long she would be here for the first time.

     The reality of life was that, in an organic body, you only had so long before you decayed to dust. Grey had given up her organic form for _this._ For adventure, to see the stars, to make a difference, if she could. If Crystal Palace would let her.

  


She felt the connection cut the instant Demani made it.

     The feeling of having a door closed on you—no. No, that wasn’t right. It was more like glancing at an open archway, looking away for a moment, and then turning back to see a _wall_.

     She was gone. But a Primary Observer could do that. It was among her rights, her privileges, her _duties_ to cut their connection whenever she deemed it necessary. Grey looked at her work station, at the small space she had here, alone, solitary among the stars, and then she remembered the last thing Primary had said.

     Grey pulled up the dispatch again.

     — _The Assemblage has this book,_ _Overcoming the Problem of Other Minds_ _. It’s...kind of a slog, all about knowledge and selfhood and all that…_

     She let it play, the whole recording all the way through as she pulled up the text Primary had mentioned. Grey scanned the information in the book’s first half, and yeah, Primary had a point—the first part sort of dragged.

    _But they don’t know what we do, do they, Satellite?_

    She glanced over at the work station and shyly, almost guiltily rewound the dispatch to listen to that particular line again.

    _They don’t know what we do, do they, Satellite?_

    It shouldn’t have sent a thrill through her. She forced herself to close the message and instead kept reading, poring over the text. Grey noted her own opinions on the text, put them down in a log and reminded herself to tell Demani later.

 

    A week went by, and then another, and Grey kept reading. She read through the _Lyrics and Accompaniment_ and tried not to imagine Demani singing it to herself, all alone in that box out there. She probably had a beautiful singing voice. Grey leafed through text after text of the Divine Fleet—the ones she hadn’t already read, of course—and then she found the oddest thing.

    It was just a footnote. Just a small note at the end of a companion text of a companion text, saying to “see _Treatise on Change_ by Dr. Jace Rethal.” She had a bit of trouble finding it at first, in a way that Grey didn’t usually have trouble finding things. In the end, she found it buried within a larger text, an essay in a bundled anthology.

    It was written differently; the differences were minute compared to the literature on Kesh, but there were _differences._ The cadence was off, the phrasing… very nearly archaic. But there was something in the prose that reminded her so much of the stories from the Assemblage. It was something Primary might like.

    It was… interesting. An encapsulation of their whole mission here: change never, ever happened quickly. Every shift, every metamorphosis was a slow movement that only appeared to be a quick change when you didn’t consider everything that came together to make it happen.

    The connection flared back online, and Grey jumped, instantly turning towards her work grid.

    “Primary?” she ventured, hesitant, hoping beyond hope that there would be an answer.

    “Satellite.”

    Something shifted in her, and everything was right again.

  


“I’m sorry we had to go dark for so long, Satellite.”

    It was so good to hear her voice again. “It’s okay,” Grey said back, cheerful. “I got some reading done while we were cut off. You remember that book you told me about, _Overcoming the Problem of Other Minds_? You were right. That first part was a slog.”

    Demani laughed on the other side of the line, and Grey felt a shiver go through her at having made her laugh. “What about the second part?”

    “You gave a really good summary of that one. Though… I wonder if there’s something to be said for the persistence of the Divine. When do you stop trying, Primary? What’s the point at which you understand that someone isn’t impressed?”

    Primary gave it thought, and there was a strangeness to the fact that they were speaking without their usual delay: a call rather than a series of spoken letters. There was _anticipation_ in communicating over a matter of seconds; Grey found herself observing those seconds pass in detail, rather than viewing her anticipation day by day. When Primary finally spoke again, all she said was, “Not everyone will shrug. But if you find yourself going in argumentative circles, maybe that means it’s time.”

    She changed the subject after that, giving Grey an update on everything that had transpired in her absence. The Iconoclasts, Signet, the strange white cloud phenomenon...Grey had missed a _lot_ in a month. But she couldn’t stop thinking about it—Demani’s laugh, a thing of delight, a spark of joy.

  


She’d been thinking a lot about selfhood. Selfhood, like—now that she didn’t have an organic body anymore, who was she? What was she? That book that Primary had told her about had wormed its way into her mind, and now she just kept thinking—she was a _person._ But she was also just data, too.

    _What’s your canvas, Primary?_ she’d asked in her latest report, in lieu of anything to report. They hadn’t faced any pushback from Crystal Palace in applying a personal touch to their communications, so Grey decided it was a lot simpler to file reports if she could speak plainly.

    Primary had sent back a dispatch that was honest and slightly rehearsed, and Grey felt herself leaning in closer to listen to it.

    “Words,” she said. “That’s my canvas, Satellite.” She explained, of course, and thinking it over as she explained, Grey reflected on how true it was—the first thing Primary always reached for was a word.

    Sometimes that word was _Satellite._

  


The glitch hit without warning, and Grey was trapped. She had run several subprotocols simultaneously, trying to immediately transmit to Crystal Palace and K-upside, needing to warn them that something was _happening_ and it was _critical._

    She got caught in the massive web that was Independence, terrifying, broadcasting solitude in spades, and overloaded her processors, slowing to a crawl, her CPU taken up by the presence of pure fear.

    In the midst of it, she turned slowly towards the door of her capsule. She didn’t know how much time had passed, or how slowly she was moving, but the door hissed open, smoke pouring from the interior, and Demani rushed forward, enveloping her in an embrace.

    “It’s okay, Satellite, I’m here, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

    Grey’s overloaded processors slowed, and she realized she was whispering the word “alone” over and over.

    “You’re not alone,” Demani said fiercely. “Not anymore, I’m here. I’m here, Grey.”

    “We’re all—we’re all alone,” Grey said, and her voice broke. “We’re all. We’re.”

    “I’m here,” Demani repeated, and Grey felt tears splash onto her synthetic skin. “Grey, _I am here with you and I’m not leaving._ ”

    Grey paused, and then slowly brought her arms up around Demani. The information overload was subsiding, and she felt herself begin to run normal programming again. The instant Grey relaxed against her, hugging her close, she heard a stifled sob come from Demani, a thing that made her tighten her grip around Grey’s neck.

  


Grey only let Demani go when she heard her stomach rumble. Even then, Demani made a noise of protest as her grip relaxed.

    “You need food,” Grey said gently, putting her hands on Demani’s waist. “Demani. I’m synthetic, but you still need to eat.”

    Demani gave an extremely deep sigh, and then loosened her grip on Grey. “Do you have any food?” she asked, and Grey laughed because it was just so plaintive. She looked around the capsule, unwilling to let go of Demani completely, her hands still on her waist.

    “I think there’s some in the back room. Dehydrated, so you’ll have to run it through the rehydrator, but… still edible. Is that okay?” Grey turned back to her and everything clicked at once. The way she was holding Demani, their proximity, that look Demani gave her.

    A second passed, and then Demani said, “Yeah, that’s okay.” Grey’s hands slipped off of her waist, and she expected Demani to head for the back room immediately, but Demani took one of her hands and said, “I might need some help looking for them. Will you come with me?”

    Grey smiled. “Okay.”

  


They broke contact after the second day, when the terrible, lonely atmosphere around them began to slowly dissipate.

    That first day had been filled with mostly quiet conversation about what they both did during that lonely month apart. Grey had brought up the treasure trove of old literature she’d found, intending on saving it for a rainy day.

    “It was all buried,” she said, leaning against Demani as she ate some noodles. “After I found the Treatise, I kept finding links to other works here and there. Nothing obvious, it’s all marginalia, barely connected, but still referenced. Isn’t it strange, Primary?”

    “If you want to, you can call me Demani,” she said around a mouthful of food.

    Grey laughed. “Okay. Demani.”

    She smiled, and Grey ducked her head just a little. Demani continued, “They might have known each other. Academia is funny like that.”

    “Still, I can’t help thinking about it… their prose is closer to what I’ve seen from where we’re from than it is to the Fleet’s materials, you know? It’s kind of archaic, but it’s also familiar.”

    Demani turned to look at her. “You think they’re from the Principality?”

    Grey half-shrugged, not wanting to upset Demani’s noodles. “They might have been. I can’t tell for sure, not enough data.”

    Demani smiled, and Grey felt her insides start to whir a little faster, so she focused on her hands instead.

    The second day followed with their linked pinkies as they traversed breakfast, observation, quiet reading, lunch, conversation, more quiet reading, and Grey smiled at the domesticity of it all, the closeness of Demani, the ease with which they went about their day.

    Day three was enough that they didn’t have to be in constant contact, but Grey still found herself near Demani at all times.

    “Hey,” Grey said as they were laying on the floor of her capsule. “You said you’d sung the Lyrics and Accompaniment back to front?”

    Demani turned to look at her. “It was a long couple of months,” she said sheepishly. “I got bored.”

    Grey rolled over onto her stomach, propping herself up by her elbows. “Do you remember any of the songs?”

    Demani laughed and folded her hands atop her own stomach. “I think I sang too many to remember any of them off the top of my head. Besides, they’re all about the same thing, pretty much: the virtue of the Divine, what they did for the Fleet, how their people thought about them.”

    “Which one stuck out to you the most?” Grey asked, curious.

    Demani hummed a little, thinking. She’d taken off her pauldrons and vest shortly after she’d released Grey’s hand and was laying on the floor in her slacks and a tank top. “There were a lot that I liked, but I think Empyrean’s is the most fascinating… and tragic, now that it’s the only one.”

    Grey nodded and gathered her courage. “Will you… will you sing it for me?”

    Demani met her eyes for a few moments, unblinking, and then asked, “Do you have the Lyrics and Accompaniment?”

    In an instant, Grey scrambled up and pulled up a copy of it for Demani, and she sat on her work table as Demani sat in her chair and sang her Empyrean’s hymn, slow and in warm tones. She sang beautifully—like the warmth of a sun condensed into a melody.

 

   

They sang the eight hymns of the eight final Divines over the next week, and then they sang every single last mourning hymn too, holding hands as they did, safe in the knowledge that they were together and despite what Independence said, this was connection. To be together, to sing, to speak of all that was left, this was what being a _person_ was.

     Selfhood was knowing the parts that make up you, but it was also this: the whirring of Satellite’s inner mechanisms as she glanced over at Demani, her hair rebraided and in soft clothes that weren’t hers, hydrating herself some breakfast.

     It was coming together every night after they went through the hymns to read an excerpt from the _Journals of Addax Dawn,_ and asking each other questions about why this one part or that other one felt like it had been skipped over.

     It was Demani catching Grey’s eye one night in the dim light of Grey’s work grid and saying, out loud, “Begin voice signature: Primary Observer Demani Dusk. Connection with K-net wide cut. Connection with Mirage-wide cut. Connection with K-upside switchboard cut. Entering capsule quarantine.”

     “Demani, what…?” Grey asked, her eyes wide as Demani cupped her cheek.

     She smiled, and Grey detected an undercurrent of tension in her voice when she spoke. “Grey, I’ve… I’ve been wanting to tell you something for a long time. You’re amazing, Grey. The way you think about things, the way you interrogate every concept in the world, it’s… breathtaking. You’re so curious.” Demani leaned in closer, and Grey found herself latching on to her by her waist. “You’re always so full of wonder, Grey. You’re the most beautiful thing in this place.”

     Grey leaned in and kissed her, knowing that if she could be crying, she would have tears running down her cheeks.

     The most incredible thing was, she could _feel_ Demani’s lips pressed against hers. It wasn’t so much of a sensation of taste as it was just sensation, data points of pressure and gentleness, how tightly Demani was holding her. She could have kissed Demani forever, to hell with the mission. She already knew in her heart that she didn’t want to destroy Quire or the Twilight Mirage, or herself, or Demani.

     Change. Change was small, and slow, and if she knew _anything_ about change from what she’d read of Dr. Rethal’s theories on it, then even someone as small as her, even a Satellite on the edge of Quire could _do something._

     Even a Satellite and a Primary.

     Eventually, Demani pulled away, needing to breathe, and Grey kissed her cheek. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I thought it was just me.” She slipped her hand into Demani’s, and Demani interlaced their fingers, kissing the back of Grey’s hand.

     “You think I would ever have been able to resist you?” Demani asked, smiling.

  
  


She left a few days later, a small chip in her hand filled with a few books. They couldn’t transfer documents that weren’t mission critical, but it didn’t mean Grey couldn’t send her off with a drive of books.

    There was still the mission to think about, though, and things down on Quire weren’t looking good. Things up by the Fleet weren’t great either, with the Iconoclasts moving, with Independence in a new body—it was all going south. They needed to move, and fast.

    Demani kept refusing. At the start of their mission, Grey had thought that Demani was just compliant, someone who followed protocol without question, but over 167 dispatches, she’d come to find that that wasn’t her at all—Demani had broken all the rules for her and then some. Yet she wouldn’t ask K-upside to intercede. Yet she kept arguing that intercession was unnecessary, that they were the Rapid Evening, that their job was to watch and wait and to push the button if things got chaotic.

     But that button was worse than negligent, it was  _cruel._ This was so much bigger than the two of them—why did they have to do this alone? Why were all these people’s lives subject to Grey’s call and Demani’s push of that button? The point of having lived through Independence’s onslaught was that it was _wrong_. They weren’t alone, and they didn’t have to be.

    She told Demani once in a report that her predecessor had filed 286,059 reports. In those reports, Grey wondered, how many different Primaries had her predecessor addressed? How many times had her predecessor come close to having one of them push the button?

    In her heart, Grey was right. These people were worth more deliberation than two people on the edge of the Mirage.

    It took Demani six days to come around to the fact that they needed _help_.

    In the instant that Grey discovered the Mirage was collapsing, it was no longer about them. It was about this whole sector.

  
  


Demani put her hand on the screen in front of her. In the face of this, she could only think of what Rethal had written in his book. Out loud, she said, “The act of living well is not in fearing the crash…”

She hit a few buttons on the control panel with her other hand. “...but in turning _collision_ into _commencement_.”

 

The light flickered on, and Demani Dusk said, “Dispatch One-Seventy-Seven.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter [@caeliste](https://twitter.com/caeliste).
> 
> \--
> 
> you'll notice i used "grey" for the entirety of this fic, but tagged it with "gray" and that's because nobody spells anything in friends at the table, spelling isn't real
> 
> also fun facts! primary and satellite’s visit lasted 26 days. the time between primary’s return to her capsule and dispatch 177 is 10 days. thanks for reading!!


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